


Kismet

by notjustmom



Series: Words, Words, Words [172]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:50:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>kismet: noun: ˈkiz-ˌmet, -mət: fate, destiny</p><p>early 19th century: from Turkish, from Arabic ḳismat ‘division, portion, lot,’ from ḳasama ‘to divide.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kismet

He wasn't going to even get up that morning. He had enough cash left for a coffee and a roll for the next two days; his shoulder was on fire, he hadn't slept in days--the nightmares were kicking his ass, still, after six months of being home, and last night he came home from the local to find five 'thanks, but no thanks' emails. Not a single request for an interview. Arseholes. He didn't even have the energy to cross the room to pull his loaded revolver from the drawer...he closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath. He somehow put his feet on the floor and managed to grab his cane, and he figured he may as well shower since he was technically 'up.' He threw on his robe and grabbed his towel, and made for the shared loo, for once there wasn't a wait. He showered, dressed and stepped outside. He took a deep breath and decided to walk towards St. Bart's, his old stomping grounds. He had nothing better to do, and there was a decent coffee shop where he could spend his last few pounds.

"John? John Watson?"

"Mike?"

 

For once he had fallen asleep in his bed, not on the couch or his chair at the kitchen table. He had no plans to move for the next two days, at the very least. Between Lestrade's backlog and Mycroft's cases of 'national importance' he hadn't closed his eyes for four days. Even for someone who treated his transport as cavalierly as he did, he knew he was headed for a crash.

"Got a body for you-" MHooper

Damn.

"Give me fifteen minutes." - SH

He threw himself from the bed, into the shower and four minutes later was hailing a cab. "St. Bart's," he growled, as he rubbed his face, trying to get his brain to fire on all cylinders. Unless I can get cases that pay, I'm going to have to find a flatmate...maybe Mike knows someone...

Five minutes later-

"Hey mate, wake up-we're at Bart's."

"Hmmm? Oh. yeah. Right. Here, keep the change."

 

Damn, when did I get old...oh, yeah, maybe on my third tour...lab is different...when did techs start looking like that...mid- no, late thirties, tallish, nice hands, eyes...fuck...saw eyes like that in Med School...addict...recovering...but damn. 

 

Doctor, no...was a surgeon, went to war, came back, can't hold a scalpel anymore...angry...sibling with issues...alcoholic?...feeling useless...nightmares...limp all in his head, tremor in his hand from the actual injury...

 

"I'm looking at a flat in Central London...I play the violin at odd hours, talk non-stop or not at all...tend not to sleep or eat much and my only friend of note is a skull...sorry must dash, left my riding crop in the morgue-"

"Is he for real?"

"For all his quirks, he's the most real person I know, yeah, he's like that all the time."

"But you don't know a thing about me-"

"Former surgeon, invalided out after two, no three tours, can't find work after three months of looking, tremor real, limp psychosomatic, therapist a joke...need I go on?"

John shook his head, silenced by the tumble of words that fell from lips that he already wanted to kiss.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes, address is 221 B Baker Street, 7pm tomorrow?"

 

Every January 29th since then, they sit in front of the fire at Baker Street, and retell the story; reminding one another that it was simply kismet, fate, that landed them both at Bart's that day. Then Sherlock offers John his hand and they retire, make love gently and passionately, then fall asleep, John's head resting softly on Sherlock's chest, Sherlock's arms wrapped around him. As it was always meant to be.


End file.
